When There Is Little Hope
by Silver Mearas
Summary: Struggling up the resisting slopes of freezing Caradhras, Aragorn starts to notice that Frodo isn't as physically healthy as he should be. Soon enough, something happens to change the situation for the worse, and there is little hope… Chapter 4 up!
1. The Power of the Ring

**When There Is Little Hope: Chapter 1 (The Power of the Ring)**

_Summary: Struggling up the resisting slopes of freezing Caradhras, Aragorn starts to notice Frodo isn't as physically healthy as he should be. Soon enough, something happens to change the situation for the worse, and there is little hope…_

_Rating: _G

_Disclaimer: I do not own and never have owned Middle-Earth: its settings nor its characters (though I wouldn't mind taking care of Aragorn or Legolas for a while ;)). They all belong to the fantastic works of J.R.R.Tolkien and nobody else. The first scene, however – and another later to follow – is taken from the movie of The Fellowship of the Ring so I'm assuming the lines spoken there belong to Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema and Wingnut Productions._

_Author's Note: Hello, this is the first time I've attempted to share Lord of the Rings fanficton with others on FF.net. I actually started this fic a whole year ago now, but I kind of lost my inspiration and completely forgot about it after a while. However, the other day I happened to come across it and it's not too bad (I was 13 years old when I started writing it so don't expect anything brilliant) – so I thought, why not?    _

_As I mentioned in the disclaimer, this fic contains two scenes from the Lord of the Rings films, and is set upon the snowy slopes of Caradhras. This first chapter is quite short, but it was the most appropriate way to split the story into sections. Depending on whether people like it or not, I will update with the next few chapters soon enough. I would very much appreciate reviews, so if you read this, please spare a little effort to do so. Thanks._

***

"Frodo!" shouted Aragorn as the breathless hobbit tumbled down the slope in the snow, rolling over and over unstoppably. Aragorn ran to him and set him back on his feet, placing his hands on his shoulders and back, steadying him.

Frodo hurriedly brushed the snow off his front and then groped around his neck in sudden panic for the item which usually rested there, untouched against his pale skin, a sharp coolness to his upper-torso as if it were strongly magnetised. But it appeared, at this moment in time, its fixed attachment to Frodo's own bonding flesh had slackened, become idle. It was gone. He looked up desperately to see Boromir – who was a little further ahead – slowly bend down, as if some gradual, heavy weight was leeringly pulling him inwards, and pick it up by the matching gold chain on which it hung.

As it was lifted out of the snow, terror and doubt crept into Frodo's mind and he froze, immobile, unable to do anything save for gasping intakes of chilling air and fearfully observing the scene set before his wide eyes. Aragorn felt his shoulder muscles tense suddenly, even in his intent concentration of studying Boromir's present facial expressions, and he gave them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He strongly suspected that Frodo sensed something strange about Boromir, as he himself did – something of small quality, along with the man's normal, friendly self, which over all desired power. Aragorn had gathered a certain disliking to one side of him ever since The Council of Elrond back in Rivendell, and ever since he had been cautious, on his guard. The suggestions Boromir had made would have never even attempted to cross Aragorn's thoughts.

"Boromir," he said to the other man, but Boromir did not seem to hear him; it was as if he was trapped in some sort of mystical trance. 

The plain white, rocky surroundings of himself and the Ring were blurred and faded, like a torch had been blown out but it was still just possible to see; but Boromir's own body and It shone with a powerful breaking forth of intense bright light, radiating it blindingly. Squinting, he breathed shallowly as he realised that the glow beamed out distinctively from the both of them. He and the Ring were bound together in magnificence, they were one, and together they would do terrible, but wonderful things. 

Shadowy shapes, an audience, were still gathered around, motionless, all facing their way. Why it was so, Boromir did not know, but at any small rate, the dark figures were of no great threat. He and this ring were all that mattered; it was meant to be; they were together, as he had desired so for such a long while…

"It is a strange fate, that we should suffer so much fear and doubt, over so small a thing," said Boromir softly to himself, staring transfixed at the tiny glint of gold held in line with his face, unaware that the wary eyes of the entire Company were fixed upon him. "Such a little thing," he continued, muttering, and he put out a hand to touch it…

"Boromir!" called Aragorn again, louder and much more sharply than before. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

Boromir was knocked back into the present scenario, swaying ever so slightly as the firm tones cracked his thoughts and sightings. He hesitated before taking slow, heavy steps towards them, reluctantly holding out the Ring to Frodo.

"As you wish," he said casually. Frodo snatched it off him and drew back hastily to the Ranger behind him, narrowing his blue eyes, although not in hate. "I care not." Boromir glanced up steadily at Aragorn who was frowning deeply, a penetrating stern look set within his dark eyes. 

Chuckling, he ruffled Frodo's mop of hair in an affectionate manner, much to the hobbit's annoyance. He slung his round shield over his broad shoulders and walked away, avoiding all eyes that were following him, especially those of the pondering Wizard up in front. 

It was only then Aragorn took away his hand from the hilt of his sword, relieved that with it, he had not been forced to threaten somebody whom he was rightly supposed to trust. 

"Frodo?" he said quietly. Anxiously, Frodo looked up at Aragorn and as their eyes met, they both instantly knew that they were thinking the same over Boromir. His brief possession of the Ring was an event which definitely should have been blocked from happening. Lowering his gaze, Frodo re-hung the chain around his neck and tucked it into his shirt, preventing it from slipping off again. That must not happen again, he thought secretly…

***

The Fellowship carried on through the remainder of the tiresome day, struggling wearily up the tough slopes of Caradhras. The heavy, ankle-deep snow and powerful, blistering winds made it hard on everyone, but especially the four hobbits – in particular the Ring-bearer. For some reason he was finding the climb more difficult than anybody else was, but only Aragorn saw this…

Frodo was lagging further and further behind, but the Ranger would not move in front, for he wanted to keep an eye on him incase he fell. Aragorn also did not fail to notice that he was coughing constantly – a cough which was not pleasant to his ears, and each time it arose it was harsher, and lasted for longer than it had previously. It sounded as if Frodo was coming down with something nasty, which would not bring good tidings at all.

He lifted him up for the fifth time as the hobbit stumbled again, after failing to rise onto his own two feet without support and sitting defeated, soaked in the snow in frustration and despair with himself. It pained Aragorn to see him suffering as he was. He would willingly and easily carry him all the way across the mountain, but he knew Frodo would refuse… probably not out of normal hobbit-stubbornness of which Aragorn had grown used to by now, but merely out of humiliation. It was bad enough for Frodo that he kept falling as it was, never mind another member of the Company having to bear him, whilst Merry, Pippin and Sam were managing perfectly well by themselves. 

Instead, the Ranger grasped his hand firmly and was almost now dragging him up the mountain. They walked only for a few more hours, with a couple of short rests, but for Frodo they travelled on… and on… and on. He was frozen stiff and so tired – all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. His ears, nose and chapped lips were numb with cold, his feet were as heavy as lead, and if he had any feeling at all in his fingers and toes it was that they felt like icicles – yet he kept on going.

Darkness was creeping into Middle-Earth, yet Gandalf who was leading them as always still did not stop; even Aragorn and Legolas felt they needed rest. Aragorn was slightly annoyed, but he was silent about it nonetheless. He did not feel this was fair on the hobbits: apart from Gimli, they were half the size of everyone else and therefore must be twice as chilled and weary than they were.

After a long while, Frodo halted suddenly, clutching at his chest and bending into a position which looked as if he was about to heave and vomit. Aragorn was at once worried, and remained by his side as the Ring-bearer coughed horrendously, grimacing at the thick, gluey bile becoming trapped at the very back of his sore throat.  

"Sor… ry," Frodo rasped, painfully taking huge, sharp gulps of air before the cough attacked again, sinking in its jagged claws, wracking his lungs uncontrollably.

"It's fine, Frodo – do not worry," Aragorn reassured and he smiled to hide his concern. "Is it getting worse?"

Frodo nodded, pushing in his stomach underneath his ribcage to try and relieve some of the pressure on his pounding chest and eventually, with an intensified struggle, he managed to bring it under control. The attack subsided and he breathed more easily again, and so the two resumed their trudge, treading in the footprints of leading Wizard, Elf, man and hobbits. But as soon as Frodo had taken no more than ten steps, he sank to his knees shakily.

"Frodo – what is it?" questioned Aragorn urgently. "What is wrong?

"I'm sorry… I cannot go on… anymore… I just can't," he panted as he weakly clasped the Ranger's steadying arm. Every intake of oxygen was a painful strain for his lungs, and a dull ache had fired up inside his chest because of it. Aragorn nodded understandingly, seeing that Frodo's remaining energy was all but spent.

"I will carry you; I expect we shall be stopping for the night soon anyway. If I put you on my back, do you think you could hold on to my neck?" he asked, crouching down to Frodo's level. 

"I will do my best," the hobbit replied, although he had the strength to do nothing at all, he was drained of it.

"Come on," encouraged Aragorn, "try to sit on top of my pack. It will be a lot more comfortable for you that way, and easier for me."

With effort, Frodo stood up and clambered onto Aragorn's back, settled on the perch of his gear. Aragorn placed his supportive hands underneath his small thighs and walked hastily to catch up with the others. Frodo's head lolled on Aragorn's shoulder but he still clung on tightly to the Ranger's neck, despite how un-active and sluggish he was. 

On and on, Aragorn continued. On… and on… and on. Would they ever decide that now was the time to stop and sleep? Frodo lost count of the number of long strides that were taken, which he had been occupying himself with to try and remain at least half-awake. He wanted to apologise to Aragorn – tell him he was sorry for being such a weak, pathetic burden, that he hated wasting another's strength just to get him further up the mountain – but he could not summon the energy, even for that. 

'_Would Bilbo be proud of me now?' _thought Frodo to himself. A tiny, nagging voice in the back of his mind answered simply for him. '_No…'_

***


	2. Settling Down

**When There Is Little Hope: Chapter 2 (Settling Down)**

_Author's Note: Hiya, folks. Hope you're all well. Firstly, I have to thank you all for your reviews! They certainly made me decide to continue updating this… I only expected one or two people to read it (presuming you _are_ all people, of course… I have known a few elves to sneak in amongst mankind). So yes, I will be carrying on with this. I actually re-posted Chapter 1, after adding a few bits to certain paragraphs – they're not too important, but if you would like to double back and read, then please feel free to do so. It's just that I wasn't entirely happy with it: it seemed too short – the chapter itself and the structure of the sentences… not that it's changed a lot now, but not to worry._

Corbin Slate:_ Thanks for being the first reviewer! I was dithering and fretting over Chapter 1 actually, and whether I'd put enough description of the character's emotions into it or not, but if you're content with the detailing of their feelings then that's what the important thing is :)._

goldie: _Yes, yes – in that case you will not need your eyes testing for a while 'cause you're seeing perfectly… another poorly Frodo is being summoned to the pen and paper. That poor little hobbit: I pity him. Yes, I realized Chapter 1 was a tiny bit short (I hope you will forgive me), and this one isn't much_ longer, although it's a bit slower-going so it might seem it. And aww – you think it's sweet? __

Trust No One:_ Thank you… I am trying to get better. I know there's always room for improvement in every piece of writing but in mine it is very spacey. But I will keep practicing!_

phoenixqueen: _Yes, I'm aware that the idea of Frodo becoming sick (or injured) on Caradhras isn't exactly new. Far better and more talented author's have attempted it before me, and made excellent jobs of it, too (the fics belonging to _Frodo Baggins of Bag End_ and _shirebound,_ especially, are fantastic)! But I promise I will try to keep it as fresh and original as possible. And thanks… personally, I think I have made the Aragorn (one of my favorites, too!)  in my story too friendly, but it seems he is preferred that way. Anyhow, I hope I haven't changed him and Frodo in any way in this next chapter…_

Lady Jaina: _Well, Aragorn is the concerned-for-his-dear-friends kind of man, really, isn't he? I don't know whether that is what Tolkien intended for him to appear as, but it's certainly what seems to shine through him at times… to me, anyway, but I am positive many others completely agree. I assure you: the hurt/comfort and angst will be plentiful, and, I'm afraid, later to come ;)._

Camellia Gamgee-Took: _Aww__, thank you for your lovely review!! And it's so nice to see another English lover of Lord of the Rings reading and writing on this site – I was under the impression that I was the only one. And you're a Southerner, I see… I'm from up North!_

shirebound: _I know – poor, poor hobbit. Gosh, I can't believe you reviewed this! You're my favourite of most favourite authors here on FF.net; your work has my total love and admiration and is wonderful! I think I mentioned you somewhere up there actually. So flattering… heehee…_

LilyBaggins: _Another of my favourite writers! Thank you for reading. I assure you, if I ever discovered the heart to kill off any of the Lord of the Rings characters, it would most definitely not be one of the hobbits, and_ certainly _not Frodo. Why, I couldn't even think such a thing… He will remain living, I promise!_

Boromir: _What's wrong with Frodo? Well, you will just have to wait and see… ;)_

crazytook: _Yes, they always do seem to take fun twists and angsty turns, don't they? Hopefully mine will be 'fun' enough for you :)._

padfoot_black: _I believe you reviewed my Harry Potter fic, too. Glad to see you're also a Lord of the Rings fan! What a sweet review! Thank you._

_And also much appreciation to the other reviewers as well! I actually chose a very stupid time to post up chapter 1 of a fresh story, for I returned to school a couple of days ago following my huge 7 week summer holiday, and have tons of work to complete already. Of course, I'd much rather spend time watching Lord of the Rings, reading Lord of the Rings, and writing about Lord of the Rings, but unfortunately real life butts in and takes control. In other words: updates are going to be extremely slow. _

_Anyway, here's Chapter 2…_

_***_

Following what seemed an Age to Frodo, relieved cries finally reached his throbbing ears and he caught snatches of a debating conversation which was rapidly taking place – but all that sunk in was: _shelter, _fire_ and __cave. Once these words eventually registered with his absent mind, they sounded extremely welcoming to Frodo… comfortable, even. Of course, he would give anything to be back at Bag End, snugly tucked up in his soft, hobbit-sized bed with his own fluffy pillows and sleek, cotton nightshirts – or to still be in Rivendell, perhaps. Either way, all he wanted now was warmth and rest. If his desire was granted in the near-future, he would be thanking the Valar forever.___

Soon enough, Frodo felt himself being gently removed from Aragorn's back by Legolas, and laid down on a blanket, spread out on the ground. He wasn't warm, or dry, or comfortable… but he was still, and he had longed for no movement for many hours. Acquiring one of his needs was an improvement to having none of them at all. He closed his heavy eyelids and almost instantly fell asleep, not having the ability to do anything besides, but no sooner had he thought this, he was interrupted by Sam who was shaking him vigorously.

"Don't fall asleep yet, Mr. Frodo!"

"Sam?" murmured Frodo, now feeling dizzy and sick, the form of Sam a clouded swirl of colour. "What is it?"

"Mr. Strider says you can't spend the night like this, begging your pardon, Sir. You need to get warmed up." Sam helped him to sit up, leaning him against the rocky wall of the cave, which kicked off a pounding ache in Frodo's head. 

"Bless me – you're as cold as ice!" Sam exclaimed, and he turned in time to see Aragorn coming towards them. "Strider, feel how cold he is…"

Aragorn smiled wryly and kneeling down, he closed his hand around Frodo's wrist, his expression unchanging.

"All right, Sam, I will see to Frodo here," Aragorn told Sam softly, "you just go and get yourself sorted." The stockier of the hobbits obeyed and carefully handed him the dry clothes from Frodo's pack, before scurrying off to the other side of the cave.

"Aragorn," Frodo mumbled weakly, "do not pay any attention to Sam… he gets too paranoid at the best of times."

"Come on, Frodo," came the mild reply, "let's get you out of those wet things before your chest becomes worse."

Frodo wanted to object, but he couldn't summon the effort, and so he allowed his larger friend to continue with what he was doing without any kind of fuss. Aragorn was gentle as he removed his sodden garments one-by-one, piling them into a drenched heap besides his pack. As he unbuttoned Frodo's shirt, however, he gasped and drew away his hands…

"_Mithril_!" he exclaimed in wonder. "You are full of the most peculiar surprises, Master Baggins! Is this truly set before my eyes, or is it an illusion?"

"Yes, it is real Mithril," replied Frodo carelessly. 

"You four delightful hobbits never cease to amaze me at times. But tell me, how did you come to own such a fine coat as this? Surely this is not the one Gandalf spoke of. If it is, he sincerely underestimated it."

"This is the one," confirmed Frodo heavily, and he sighed. At times, the thought of Bilbo encouraged him and filled him with love and happy thoughts, but then at others it brought him sadness and reluctance to continue with this forsaken challenge. As contented and utterly pleased as he was with his current companions, he wished his old uncle were present.

"Bilbo passed it on to me in Rivendell, along with Sting, of course, and a few wise words to go with them. He told me I had a much greater need for it now than he did, starting out on this journey and all. He said that no hobbit from the Shire – besides, perhaps, himself – had ever ventured out on a quest such as the one I was about to undergo, and nor would they ever do so..." Frodo's frail voice cracked and became slightly hoarse from the strain of using his vocal chords, but at least it helped him to stay upright and awake. "Bless dear Bilbo! How I miss him on this awful, freezing mountain… I am positively certain he would keep my spirits high and hopeful."

Aragorn smiled warmly after listening to the past-words of Bilbo, and he said fondly, "Bless the old hobbit, indeed! I do not doubt that he would raise everybody's spirits immensely… but seriously, he certainly has a sharp eye for dangers ahead, does Bilbo. I am glad he gave this to you, Frodo."

"Don't mention it to the others," pleaded Frodo seriously, "…not yet. It is sort of like a secret between the two of us, a connection: a piece of Bilbo I have brought along with me, I suppose," he added, a little embarrassed, for he knew it sounded childish.

Aragorn simply nodded and eased off Frodo's shirt.

"I will not say anything, I promise you, Frodo. Would you prefer to keep it on then, for it will not be wet on the inside, will it?"

"I'll take it off," Frodo answered, "only because of this dreadful cough I have. My chest feels tight enough as it is."

Sluggishly, he wriggled out of the mail coat and Aragorn placed it in the bottom of his pack with extreme care, resisting the urge to slide his fingers over the small, smooth rings and gems of the fine, silver corselet, which shimmered dully from the unnatural, short-distanced light of Gandalf's staff.

"Where are the others?" Frodo asked curiously, pulling on a pair of dry breeches. It was quite dark in the large cave, despite the helping source of the Wizard. Combined with the worsening dizziness he was suffering, he could not seem to view things all that efficiently.

Pointing further back into the hole in the rocks they had chosen for sufficient shelter, Aragorn answered, "Gandalf, Merry, Pippin and Samwise are over there; the rest have disappeared to gather some firewood from the evergreen trees, near to here."

"I think I shall be asleep before we get a fire going," said Frodo drowsily, rubbing his stinging eyes with a squashing amount of pressure and causing stars to appear before them. It did not aid his dizziness. 

"No, you will not. I am making sure you have some hot food tonight," Aragorn stated firmly as he helped him with his fresh shirt. Frodo's stomach suddenly twisted itself into a tight, unpleasant knot at the mental image of food. 

"I don't think I can eat anything tonight," he said quietly.

"I know you don't feel like it, Frodo," said Aragorn gently, "but you really do need to keep up your strength."

Frodo sighed in defeat. "I will try, but… I'm worried about it coming back up…"

"Maybe a mild soup then, but you definitely need something. Do you feel sick?" questioned the Ranger, frowning a little. He placed a rough hand on the hobbit's forehead to find he was still freezing cold.

"Yes, slightly," Frodo replied, and he shivered as a strong draught blew forcefully through from the cave's entrance. Aragorn wrapped a blanket around his small form tightly, just as Merry strolled over to them then, hands in pockets, smiling brightly.

"There was a clump of wood at the back of the cave, Strider, which Sam found. Should we rustle up a fire now?" asked the younger hobbit cheerfully, winking at his cousin. "We could at least make a start in warming ourselves up before the others return!"

Aragorn cast an inspecting glance at Frodo and nodded to Merry as another shudder passed through him, chattering his teeth. As he sat there, huddled up, Frodo appeared gaunter and less coloured than ever: apart from the red rawness of his nose and ears, the dark, purplish rings of exhaustion underneath his eyes, and his normally-rosy, chapped lips, tinged with blue – the small features of his thin face were chalk white, deathly pale.

"Come on," said Aragorn decisively, "let's take you over to join the rest of the scallywags over there in the corner." 

Ignoring the blank absence of a hobbit's chuckle, he lifted him easily in his arms – marvelling at how light Frodo had become – and carried him towards the half of the Fellowship whom had not exited to find fuel for the flames, sitting him next to Gandalf. Fetching another blanket – one of his own large ones – he draped it over the Ring-bearer's shoulders and set to assisting Merry with the fire.

Once Aragorn offered his help they soon had it ablaze, and Frodo began to warm up somewhat, although his headache was becoming worse. Lingering between sleep and consciousness, he did not hear or see what the others were doing, as Sam boiled some soup in a pan. Several times his name was repeated to be certain he was still awake and each time he murmured back sleepily.

"Frodo… Frodo, eat this and then you can sleep. Wake up now, come on – you can't escape my demands as easily as that, you rascal..." Aragorn roused him again with a fresh bowl of steaming mushroom soup in his hand, shaking his shoulder. 

Frodo stirred but forced his eyes shut even more tightly; he groaned and rolled onto his front, trying in vain to escape the sickening smell of mushroom, which usually he would do anything for. Why couldn't they just leave him in peace to rest? That was all he wanted to do, not eat or drink – sleep. He was aware that Aragorn was only doing what was best for him because he was his friend and he cared for him, but he was ill with weariness.

"Frodo, please, you need to eat… just a bit of it at least. You must." Putting down the soup, Aragorn squeezed his small hand encouragingly, but Frodo remained with his face buried deeply inside his nest of blankets.

Gandalf exchanged a concerned look with Aragorn, his large, bushy grey eyebrows knitting together in the middle as he frowned. Bending down, he murmured soft words into Frodo's ear so that the others – straining their hearing – could not tell what he was saying, and after a moment the Wizard helped him to twist around and sit up.

Frodo _did_ look very indisposed and peaky as he blinked in the flickering light, raising his arm to rub the sore itchiness away form his red, puffy eyes, deprived of their usual bright spark. Aragorn caught him as he swayed and shifted closer so the hobbit could lean on his body to stay upright.

"Here, my boy, try to swallow as much of this as you can," Gandalf told him kindly, as he handed over the bowl to non-awaiting palms.

Reluctantly, Frodo accepted and took the soup. He hesitated before raising his hand and putting a spoonful of thick, creamy broth into his mouth, fighting to keep the existing contents of his stomach at bay as he swallowed. Gradually he managed to push the rest of it down, followed by a reasonable amount of water under the watchful eye of Aragorn. Though it had not done any justice to the soreness of his throat, he had to admit, the nauseas dizziness had subsided a little.

"There's a good lad," said Gandalf, taking the empty bowl off him and leaning over to pick up the spoon which had clattered clumsily to the ground.

"Well, that's a relief, Frodo," the cheeky voice of Pippin piped up.

"What is?" mumbled Frodo, his eyelids drooping again. He barely felt the comforting squeeze around his shoulders which came from the Ranger next to him…

"Pip's right," said Merry amusingly, licking his own spoon, "you've thankfully spared us the task of informing Bilbo, Frodo, that his heir and favourite nephew refused a whole bowl of soup, leaving it to go to waste! How shocked would he have been to hear that?"

"_Mushroom_ soup, too!" squeaked Pippin, drawing his envious attention away from Sam, who was sipping his own soup delicately as if savouring every precious moment of delicious taste. 

Everyone laughed at their remarks, especially Gandalf who knew and loved the hobbit-ways well, and even Frodo managed a weak smile. He was glad those two were here: they made everything friendly… in a way, almost replacing Bilbo's absence. Remembering his place, he muttered a barely-audible, 'goodnight', before Aragorn lowered him carefully down, tucking the blankets around him snugly, and he finally drifted off, sinking down into blessed slumber…

 ***


	3. Waves of Weakness

**When There Is Little Hope: Chapter 3 (Waves of Weakness)**

_Author's Note: Well, I suppose I'm somewhat of a stranger when it comes to this story. I'm so terribly sorry that it's taken this long for me to update! When I said, "updates are going to be extremely slow", I certainly didn't intend to wait a month (and many days afterwards!) to post chapter three. I've just been so busy… so, so busy :(. _

_shirebound: Your stories are always inspiration to me -- and I think, in a way, they are huge inspirations to every reader/writer who has been given the delightful pleasure in reading them!  _

Shire Baggins: _Thank you! I'm hoping to place in a lot more of Merry, Pippin and Sam in future chapters. (And who _doesn't_ like sick-Frodo fics?_ :)_)_

3-5th ling: _Your review made me laugh so much! And don't worry, you're not the only one who doesn't like mushrooms. I feel like I'm betraying hobbits when I say this, but they're horrid things! (__Yep, this is a hurt/comfort story…) _

Aragornrocks: _I don't think the teachers realize that we actually have lives, and lives in which fics are in desperate need of an update._

Sorrow Reminisce: _I'm afraid that Frodo's going to be in terrible danger soon, in more ways than one! … Aww. In that case, I'm sure your mum was very caring! I don't  recall being sick myself for a long time, so perhaps I press down too hard on Frodo's health, but there again, *technically* I'm still a kid so maybe I still have time to go for an illness to drift my way. '*coughs* Oh, my throat…'_

_Thank you everybody who reviewed! And if you have any critiques at all, please state them. I really want to know how I can improve my writing, and the only way I'll find that out is if you tell me. I will be happy to receive a positive comment of advice! … I'm a little nervous about posting this chapter: I don't think it has many strong points to it. But anyway, it's finally here…_

_***_

When Frodo stirred, the first thing that sunk in was the coldness: bleak, numbing coldness. He did not understand why the temperature seemed so unfriendly to his body, for he had three thick blankets wrapped around him, leaving only the features of his face exposed to the cave-air. And yet he shivered uncontrollably as if he were clad in absolutely nothing. 

Exhausted, he wanted desperately to fall back to sleep, but he began to toss and turn where he lay, unable to get warm or comfortable. It was due to the unpleasant fact that breathing was immensely difficult and to his dismay, he could feel a dreaded cough forming in the back of his throat, where it was waiting warily to set itself free from the confinement of his irritated windpipe.

Struggling to sit up, Frodo pulled the blankets off himself and sharply drew air into his tight and aching lungs; then noticed that the fire was low, almost to the point of burning out. He scrambled to his feet, and much too quickly because the sickly dizziness returned in strong waves – washing over his coordination entirely – and it felt like he had been dangling upside down for the last hour. He swooned and staggered, but thankfully the cave returned to an un-blurred focus just as he managed to regain his balance and prevent himself from falling atop of Sam's softly snoring form.

Panting slightly and rubbing his brow, Frodo glanced around and viewed eight sleeping forms, all motionless; the others must have returned after he had fallen asleep. He spotted the huge pile of chopped firewood and moved to throw more logs onto the fire for the weak, dying flames to lick up and swallow, just as the cough crept up unexpectedly, catching him off his guard. 

Silently he panicked. If he took so much as half a breath now, his chest would explode into a spasm of unstoppable coughing. He could not disturb his companions with the noise. Forcing his throat to obscure for as long as he possibly could, Frodo hurried out of the shelter of the cave to meet the painfully chilling nip of the air's temperature, and there he relieved his pressured lungs, allowing them to gain an angry, vicious control.

***

It was deep into the night when Aragorn awakened to discover no fire and nobody on watch in the small cave, and everything was relatively quiet. The only noise to be heard came from one of the heavily breathing hobbits nearby… or he supposed it could be Gimli. The Dwarf had acquired an annoying habit for snoring over the past few weeks, and had been smacked out of his noisy slumber by another more than once. But no, there was something else; something in the atmosphere was missing and it disturbed him greatly.

Sitting up, the Ranger looked around. The light – radiating dimly from the Wizard's staff propped up against the rocks – was scarce. Now that he was awake, he would remain up and keep guard of the Company himself. Gandalf certainly would not be very impressed if, in the morning, he discovered that somebody had passed by their watch with a casual wave of the hand. The Wizard had made it specifically clear that at least one member of the Fellowship must stay conscious and alert to any kind of danger at all times, especially when it was still dark. And in any case, the fire needed to carry on burning brightly throughout the night, or they risked severe heat loss, when heat was precious little to each body as it was. Frodo, for one, had to...  

Frodo! Aragorn's grey eyes instantly stopped scanning the other dark figures and wavered alarmingly over the abandoned pool of numerous blankets next to him. The hobbit was gone. At once the Ranger jumped to his feet, his mind racing with all sorts of possibilities, and he quickly checked to see if Frodo was snuggled in with Merry, Pippin or Sam in search for sources of warmth. The Ring-bearer was not there.

Then Aragorn could have _sworn_ he heard something outside, and he strained his ears to listen...  Yes, there it was again – the unmistakable sound of a bad cough. Silently cursing, he rushed outside, hoping, praying, that Frodo had had the sense not to stay out there for too long, especially in his condition. 

He stared wildly about, trying to make out shapes in the dark. At least the wind and the snow had stopped whipping and blasting in all directions, but the climate had lost none of its icy feel; in fact, it was worse: it was _freezing cold, even though he could put up with such aspects of weather._

There! Frodo was standing a short way away by a clump of jagged rocks, bent double and grasping at his chest and throat, choking and suffering terribly each time he drew a desperate breath. After running towards him, Aragorn crouched down by the hobbit's side.

"Oh, Frodo..." The concerned Ranger shook his head gravely. "You should not be out here..."

Even if he had wanted to, Frodo could make no answer as his chest shook. He hardly had half a second to breathe with the repetitive, violent tremors of the exhausted cough, tearing harshly at his lungs and throat. Close to tears, he gazed helplessly, almost pleadingly, into Aragorn's observing eyes and realised how anxious they were.

The Ranger understood that it was hurting him badly, and without another word he straightened Frodo up with strong, insistent hands and firmly rubbed his back until the coughing subsided, and the hobbit could eventually breathe. Frodo gasped for air, his lungs rattling painfully.

"Come," said Aragorn quietly, "you had better get back to the cave."

He clasped Frodo's tiny, cold wrist and carefully and swiftly guided him through the bitter, moist snow to their shelter. There he sat the little Ring-bearer down, and after wrapping his own blankets around him with concentrated attention to warming Frodo up, he threw some wood onto the small fire and set to making a pot of tea, purposely giving the hobbit some time to recover.

Swaddled in blankets yet again, Frodo sat huddled up to his knees and shivering. He guessed that he was being closely viewed by the corner of an eye, but he could not help it – he was extremely cold. A few moments later, Aragorn crawled over, handing him a mug of steaming tea which he accepted gratefully, the warmth soothing his numb hands.

"Thank you."

Hot tea. Good. He sipped it tentatively, half-expecting it to have some sort of foul-tasting herb mixed in amongst the liquid, but he found it to be sweet and refreshing, and it heated his insides comfortably.

Aragorn watched him quietly, noticing how the tired, blue eyes avoided his own. Taking his own mug of tea, he shifted to sit beside him, a little surprised when Frodo was the first to speak...

"I went outside... how did you know that?"

Aragorn smiled down at him, inclining his head.

"You were not in here."

"Yes, but...  did I wake you?" the hobbit asked anxiously.

"I am not sure," replied Aragorn. "I woke when you were already gone and felt something missing. And it's a good job I did awaken, too; I doubt you would have......  Are you still cold?" he questioned, noticing his shivers with concern. Frodo was quavering like a leaf.

Frodo nodded, but at once regretted it, for he only just realised how heavy and achy his head felt. Frowning deeply, Aragorn lightly touched his cheek and forehead, before slipping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. The action was a gentle one, but that did not prevent Frodo from wincing slightly – at the moment he was extremely stiff and sore, and any light touch to his tender muscle tissues was painful torment. Although thankfully, Aragorn had not noticed.

"Why did you go outside, Frodo?" he asked softly.

"Aragorn, is that...  not obvious? I couldn't stop coughing."

"Better to cough in here than outside in the cold," said Aragorn suggestively, raising his dark eyebrows, "isn't it?"

"No...  well, yes..." Frodo answered wearily, "but I did not wish to wake everyone... " 

"Frodo, they would not have minded; we would rather be disturbed from sleep than see you frozen to death the next morning..."

Making no answer to this, the hobbit gulped down the remaining cooled tea in his mug and put it down on the ground next to him, refusing to meet the Ranger's gaze. 

"Promise me you will not do that again," said Aragorn sternly. "You have an extremely bad chill already; I do not wish to see you grow any worse. If your cough arises again during the night, do not hesitate to wake me and I will give you something to ease it. There is no need to suffer in silence. All right?"

"Yes, all right..." Frodo confirmed as he sniffed a little, a chilling shudder crawling up his spine.

All of a sudden his head began to swim and he felt terribly dizzy, and his vision whirled like he was drowning in his own, dark surroundings, with prickling stars appearing all over the place. He was going to pass out – the feeling was all too familiar, though this time it washed over him thoroughly.

"Ara----" The Ranger's name was left unfinished as Frodo gasped and clenched his eyes tightly shut, his head feeling extremely heavy; and it strained on his aching neck. The whirling seemed to merge together in his stomach and getting faster and faster, it swirled up inside of him until he could not bear it in silence any longer. "Oh…"

"Frodo?" The small Ring-bearer had gone limp in the man's hold – as if his bones were made of rubber – and glancing down, Aragorn saw his wide eyes come in and out of hazy focus. "Frodo!" he pressed more urgently, supporting the swooning hobbit in his arms entirely, for Frodo's muscles and skeleton seemed to have slackened and temporarily forgotten their main purpose.

"Oh, my head," groaned Frodo, slumping weakly against the Ranger. "I need... need to lie down... my... my head hurts...  terribly. Aragorn... please..."

Frodo's head lolled and he moaned with sickness as he was lowered down onto his make-shift bed. Aragorn pulled the blankets up to the hobbit's chin, ensuring that they were tucked around him warmly and snugly, and then sat by his side inspecting the chalk white face.

"Is that better?" he asked softly, brushing back dark curls from his forehead reassuringly.

"Mmph, a little. Still dizzy," Frodo muttered in reply.

"I know. Lie still, now. Sleep will help so get some rest whilst you can – you do need it. I will be here if you wake and require me, don't worry..."

Gladly, Frodo willingly obeyed, feeling drained of all energy and exhausted. Distantly he began to suspect that there had been something in the tea after all – some sort of refreshment herb, for both his mind and body were more relaxed and at ease as he drifted off for a second time, the fire now alive and crackling once again.

***


	4. A Dangerous Ledge

**When There Is Little Hope: Chapter 4 (A Dangerous Ledge)**

_Again, sorry for the very slow update; I thank you immensely for your lovely reviews! Some action has finally reached the story so hopefully it should be livelier. This is the other scene I mentioned in the Author's Note of chapter 1: one of the two movie-scenes I'm including in my chapters, but I haven't stuck to canon exactly. I've changed some of the spoken lines and the course of action, towards the end -- so I guess that will make the story "AU" from here onwards. I'm in a rush, so I hope you enjoy! The next chapter might not be up for a while._

****

***

It was morning, and nobody was looking forward to the tough hours ahead. To follow was another exhausting day of dragging themselves up vicious Caradhras, battling the snow, hail, wind and cold with every slow step. The despised weather conditions had been bad for the past couple of days, but to make matters worse for them since then – excluding the illness that seemed to recently be passing through Frodo – they had grown even more terrible during the night. 

From the shelter of the large cave the Company could quite loudly hear the awful howling of the wind as it crashed into the wall of rock, and they glumly turned their heads away from the narrow entrance where it openly showed them the bitterness they would soon enough have to face. 

All had low spirits. Gimli, in particular it seemed, for he was audibly grumbling to his axe. But the faces of Merry and Pippin, normally bright and mischievous, were hung with absolute gloom. Sam had done his best beforehand to raise the scarce cheerfulness and lighten the general mood, but had failed dismally, and now he was being a little snappy – which was quite out of character for him – to anyone who made the slightest of noises, or abandoned a cup in a place to his disliking, or complained about the climate for the twentieth time – even though he did that himself. Even Legolas, who rarely gave hints of his thoughts and emotions, was often sighing to himself and glancing outside with a slight loathe within his sharp eyes.

Aragorn had been relieved from watch by Legolas – who had apologised on Gimli's behalf – late into the early hours of morning, and the Elf had roused him again shortly afterwards. Apparently Gandalf had decided they were making an early start today… perhaps that was another added reason for the foul moods in the atmosphere. 

And now the Wizard sat bent-over on a rock by the drafty hole into the cave. He was obviously in one of his deep thinking periods; to prove that he was chewing the tip of his pipe absently, having not even attempted to light and smoke it. The Ranger watched discreetly as a hobbit – Pippin, by the slightly darker colour of hair – shuffled over to where Gandalf was seated, and plopped himself down at his side. He grinned up at the serious but kindly face, and Aragorn shook his head. Even for a hobbit, that was very daring: no Wizard usually allowed the mildest of disturbances whilst he was lost in thought. And a chattering Took was slightly more than a _mild_ disturbance anytime – every member of the Fellowship had come to know that over the recurring few weeks. But the two were now talking naturally, Gandalf reaching out and fondly ruffling Pippin's hair as he chuckled at the hobbit's words.

Sam was continuing to make mugs of tea, which nobody was ungrateful for – and in truth, they probably would not have dared refuse it anyway, considering the warning glint in Sam's eyes this morning. After thanking the hobbit appreciatively, Aragorn sat down in silence and drained his cup without bothering to add to the scarce mutters of conversation. He then poured some in a flask for Frodo, and moved over to the sleeping form.

Where he was curled up soundlessly Frodo looked very pale, Aragorn thought, as he examined the Ring-bearer's small face intently. He did appear worse than he had done a few hours ago, although he was sleeping peacefully which the Ranger supposed was more encouraging. 

"How is he?"

Aragorn looked up to find Gandalf bending down with a look of concern on his face.

"Not good; Frodo is certainly unwell." He sighed heavily. "This chill he has is dangerous in these parts and it is rapidly becoming worse. I fear…" Aragorn glanced around to check the hobbits were out of listening distance and lowered his voice. "I fear it may be developing into a case of Pneumonia…"

Gandalf nodded sadly, his eyes leaving the man's and wavering down to the blanket-bundled hobbit below.

"Gandalf," said Aragorn firmly, "if he grows in the slightest more ill, we shall have to rest for a while until he is better. If we wish for Frodo to live then I'm afraid there will be no alternative."

A stern glisten passed through the Wizard's eyes for a second, but he nodded slowly in agreement, and stood by as the Ranger bent over Frodo's chest and listened to his breathing. It was heavy and strained, as if it were a huge effort. Aragorn shook his head gravely.

"I doubt he will be able to walk today, and it is probably dangerous for him to do so anyway… I have a few herbs and plants that I think will help him, as well as special medicines given to me by Elrond, but the main thing is to keep him as warm as possible."

He shook Frodo gently and carefully lifted him into a much-supported sitting position. Frodo's eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning, my dear hobbit," Gandalf said quietly to him, as Frodo sleepily rubbed his eyes.

"Is it… time to go?" Frodo asked, his voice clouded thick with sleep. Smiling, Gandalf crouched down beside them.

"Shortly," Aragorn replied. "Don't worry about having to walk, though: we will carry you today. How do you feel, Frodo?"

"Oh, I can walk a little way, I think... Better… My head is all right now; chest hurts badly..."

"I'm afraid your chill is turning into quite a nasty chest infection," Aragorn told him, exchanging a quick glance with Gandalf. "Later I will give you something to ease the strain. Concerning your cough, however, there is little I can do – we will just have to hope it will subside and gradually go away by itself, although honey and other substances in my supplies may aid it slightly. Sam has made some tea for us all…" 

Aragorn scanned the ground around them, confused, but realised what he had done when Sam came over with the forgotten flask. He smiled at the hobbit.

"Ah! Thank you, Sam." 

"That's no problem, Strider… Here you are, Mr. Frodo! This should warm you up, sir."

Sam removed the sealed lid and handed his friend the flask. After one mouthful Frodo felt refreshed and warm, and, indeed, he felt he could definitely walk a short distance that day. He told Aragorn this.

The Ranger was apprehensive, and sighed. "It is up to you, Frodo, but the dizziness you experienced last night was due to exhaustion. If you're sure you are feeling strong enough, though, I'll allow you to walk. I cannot imagine why you would want to do so."

"I'm feeling fine now," Frodo mumbled, embarrassed, as Sam assisted him with his jacket and cloak. 

When he was fully clad he stood, wishing the three pairs of observing eyes were not alert to every sign of slight weakness he showed. And as if to disagree with his own previous words he wobbled, but as ever, Aragorn's arms were there to steady him. 

"I am all right, Aragorn," Frodo told the man without looking up into his face – for he was certain there would be two highly-raised eyebrows creasing Aragorn's forehead. "I'm not too dizzy… and it is passing."

He shivered and pulled his cloak around him tightly as everyone made to leave the cave and set out, and finally stepped out into the cold, ready to briskly walk through the day.

***

The rest of the early morning passed by without much excitement. The Company paused briefly for a bit of breakfast, in which Frodo had to be persuaded by Gandalf, Aragorn and Sam to eat something. Then they trudged on non-stop without talking for the best part of noon-time, feeling slightly more energetic now their stomachs had been somewhat filled.

Frodo was managing a lot better than Aragorn had though he would: the hobbit was certainly much stronger than he appeared to be. Only when the blizzards arose did he begin to stumble and cough, but Sam who was beside him, leading Bill, was careful to make sure that he did not fall behind.

Aragorn ran to them, and placing his hands on Frodo's shoulders, whispered something in his ear. With relief washing over him, Frodo nodded gratefully and soon found himself in Aragorn's arms, his head rested on the Ranger's broad shoulder.

"Thank you," he said quietly with chattering teeth.

Looking over Aragorn Frodo began to notice the blizzards becoming gradually worse; he could barely see Sam's form next to Bill. Although he could tell the snow was getting deeper; and if he judged correctly then it would be up to Sam's chest by now.

"Aragorn," croaked Frodo, after briefly coughing.

 "What is it?" asked Aragorn. "Is your chest hurting you badly?"

"No… well, yes… but, I mean, it's not me… I don't think Sam can carry on much longer," he hastily explained.

Turning around, Aragorn viewed the depth of the snow – and the fact that Sam was nearly drowned in it. As Boromir approached he gave the Ranger a sharp look and Aragorn nodded understandingly.

"Sam!" he called to the struggling hobbit. "Come, I will carry you as well. If this snow gets any deeper you'll be buried underneath it! Gimli can take Bill."

Lifting and holding Sam in his free arm, he could tell that Frodo was definitely the lighter of the two; but it did not matter – he could easily carry both of them. He glanced back and saw Boromir picking up Merry and Pippin, and Gimli grasping the pony's leading rope.

As they went on, the snow got deeper and the snow-storms stronger. Aragorn could feel Frodo and Sam shivering against him, and he silently wished he had covered the Ring-bearer in an extra shirt before leaving; though there was little he could do about it now. Gandalf, up in front, was making it easier for them by forcing a jagged path through the thick snow with his staff, but even then it was difficult, especially for Aragorn and Boromir bearing two hobbits each.

When squinting his eyes Frodo could just make out Legolas walking carefully past on a bank of solid ice on the edge of the cliff ledge. It amazed him how light and sure-footed the Elf was – how he could take steps on there without slipping and falling down the rocky walls into thin air; even Hobbit Feet were not that skilled. Half of Frodo wanted to cry out to Legolas and order him to get down from there at once, but he knew what he was doing, after all.

He definitely knew what he was doing. Suddenly Legolas halted and stared keenly into the open air, which for anybody else was blinded by splints of sharp, blistering ice.

"There is a fowl voice in the air," he stated loudly.

Frodo strained his ears, but could not determine anything besides the wind whipping against his throbbing eardrums; yet it soon became apparent that Legolas was correct…

"It's Saruman!" cried Gandalf, one hand against the cliff wall as if for support.

Then there was a splitting, angry crack up in the sky. Shocked, Frodo quickly glanced up… only to preview the broken-off rocks crumbling and hurling down from directly above, seemingly aiming for the exact spot where they were stood with their mouths hanging open and their breaths caught in their throats. 

Tightly clinging to Frodo and Sam, Aragorn rapidly ducked, twisting round slightly to shield the hobbits in his protective arms, as did Boromir in the exact same moment. The heavy rocks fortunately missed them, tumbling down the mountain edge with huge crashing noises, almost causing the ledge beneath them to tremor.

"_He's trying to bring down the mountain_!" Aragorn had to shout to be heard by the Wizard. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

"_No_!" Gandalf answered, shaking his head vigorously.

Aragorn gently lowered Frodo onto his own two feet, sliding an arm around his shoulders, keeping him as close as possible. Holding his hood with numb fingers to keep it in place, Frodo looked out from the little shelter he had in the Ranger's grasp. He did not understand what was happening.

Gandalf stepped up onto the same ledge as Legolas, thrust out his staff, and bellowed words Frodo did not understand – the language was unfamiliar to him. But after a few seconds there was a terrible strike of blinding lightening. The bolt hit the rocks above them, and again they came dangerously hurling down followed by sharp chunks of ice and heaps of heavy snow. Sam, who was desperately clutching the front of Aragorn's black cloak, gave a small cry as he turned his head upwards. Frodo saw Legolas grab a handful of Gandalf's robes and haul him against the wall, the rocks narrowly missing him. Yelling, Aragorn dived away from the ledge, tugging Frodo and Sam with him.

………

The next thing Frodo knew was that he had been buried alive under a thick mound of drenching snow. The daggered flakes – tightly constricted together – were biting painfully at his face, hands and feet, spreading the cold through his veins. He could not tell what position his body was in, but the weight was crushing him. He could not breathe: it felt like he was suffocating. He _was _suffocating. Desperately he tried to bury his hands upwards and through the compacted snow to the surface but, as he had hoped, it did not reach the air. 

Then both Frodo and Samwise felt themselves being lifted out of the deepness and re-surfaced to where they could finally draw breath, although the snow levelled to their chests and they could hardly move. Frodo panted painfully once he could breathe; and Sam choked on the icy flakes, causing Aragorn to shift a large quantity of the snow away with his arm and bare hand to give the hobbit enough space.

"We must get off the mountain – make for the Gap of Rohan!" called Boromir. "Then take the West Road to my city!"

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isenguard!" Frodo vaguely heard Aragorn shout from right behind him.

He was barely listening, leaning on Sam for support – too tired and cold to care as he shivered uncontrollably.

"First let us carry on!" Gandalf suddenly begged them. Boromir passed him a look of insanity, but Aragorn, who knew the Wizard well, made no sign of his thoughts. 

"This ledge will end shortly; there are few paces until we may come to open space again! There shall be nothing for Saruman to haul at us then except for bad weather, which we have been through enough of before now! If we carry on this way we will face less danger than if we were to go by the Gap of Rohan, and there is less than a week's journey left over Caradhras – it is less than if we were to head back." Gandalf spoke – or shouted, rather – urgently and insistently, whilst sharply scanning the sky with his old eyes for further danger-signs. "To turn back now would be madness! Utter madness!" he finished firmly.

"Yet if we cannot pass over the mountain, why not go _under it?" piped in Gimli, offering another possibility. "Let us go through the Mines of Moria!"_

Amongst the Fellowship it was silent at this suggestion. They watched Gandalf, who narrowed his eyes as his thoughts raced. Frodo had heard from Bilbo about the Mines of Moria – the hobbit had passed on what the dwarves had told him, many years ago: of the great stone halls and deep black chasms, with roaring fires between the tall, mighty pillars and the hundreds of mining dwarves, working hard to collect more dazzling Mithril. But even though spitting, hot fires were extremely appealing to Frodo at the present, he had not forgotten the rest of the tale. Bilbo had also told of what the dwarves had re-awoken in the deep emptiness of Moria: …shadows… flame. It scared Frodo even now and he shuddered, the quiver adding to his harsh shivers… He was knocked back to the present scenario by Gandalf's next words.  

"Let the Ring-bearer decide."

But the Ring-bearer was completely taken aback at this: how was _he expected to choose the right road? He had no experience with these journeys, unlike Legolas, or Boromir, or most of all Aragorn. He turned desperately to Sam, who gazed back at him helplessly._

"We cannot stay here!" shouted Boromir, rubbing the shoulders of Merry and Pippin who were no contrast to the surroundings with their white faces. "This will be the death of the hobbits!" Indeed, the two cousins looked as if they could not stand any more.

"Frodo?" Gandalf prompted, his stare penetrating into the blank face of his small friend.

Frodo vaguely felt Aragorn give his shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and he almost heard Bilbo's voice inside his head: "_Do what you think is best, Frodo my lad."_

"We will go through the Mines," he found himself saying loudly and clearly. He noticed the excited grin which passed through Gimli's face, and the small growl of triumph the Dwarf gave – and glimpsing around, everyone seemed to be relieved. Only Gandalf and Aragorn looked as if they knew Frodo had not finished speaking. 

"Although… I never go against the council of Gandalf. We will go through the Mines… if we do not cross this mountain."

"Then so be it," said Gandalf solemnly. "It is settled. But come! We cannot discuss it here. At the next shelter we find we will make camp for the night." 

They began to move on once more, half still shaken up, half grumbling to themselves. Aragorn smiled at Frodo as he picked him (and Sam) back up, which gave the hobbit a little comfort over his decision.

***__


End file.
